


plot bunnies

by Eolien



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Haikyuu!!, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, Tortall - Tamora Pierce, 롤플레잉겜만화 - 개차반 | RPG - Gaechaban
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Crossover, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-15 14:41:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17530634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eolien/pseuds/Eolien
Summary: A backup of ficlets that I may or may not continue; if continued will be posted separately.The whole list including keywords and details are in the first chapter.





	1. Table of Contents

**Chapter 1 :** Table of Contents

 **Chapter 2 :** In which Thom of Trebond wakes up in Arda, Second Age

_/ Tortall x Tolkien, crossover, Thom of Trebond, Maglor, Gil-galad, Elrond, Glorfindel_

**Chapter 3** : buon vino 

 _/ 15th century RPF, slash, Giuliano della Rovere_ | _Julius II, Rodrigo de Borja_ | _Alexander VI_

 **Chapter 4** : Forfeit the Sun 

_/ Haikyuu!!, Magic AU, slash, Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime, Major Character Death_

**Chapter 5** : Dark as Daylight

_/ RPG (manhwa), Vampire AU, pre-slash, Isley, Raiquia, Heavy Angst_


	2. In which Thom of Trebond wakes up in Arda, Second Age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thom after Lioness Rampant. Heavily OoC but I've had fun scribbling.

_So young, so broken,_ a low, musical voice murmurs, and Thom shifts uneasily, sensing the other even while he drifts from dream to dream. Hands skim over his robes and a sliver of magic that almost feels like warm water pushes into his chest, mending the broken ribs and lungs in its aftermath as it probes his limp body. The sensation, even in Thom's unnaturally high fever, is akin to the healing sleep and he is lulled to slight unconsciousness when it delves _in_ to where his Gift resides.

Thom startles, suddenly wide awake yet his sight are blurry and he can only spy a dark silhouette in front of him; he tries to move but fails.

 _Aiya,_ the voice drops as if in mourning, _there is no use in healing when the fëa fades away. Release be swift, for it will be the only mercy I can bestow upon you._

And that is when the warmth develops a grim edge and cuts sharply between him and his Gift, still tainted with blood red hue and a shadow of what it had been, yet Thom cannot bear losing what little is left of it and he clings desperately, drawing it back to the very depths of his mind. But the power follows through, sliding through the cracks in the shield that he failed to bolster and smothers his Gift with sheer force.

Thom howls at the blinding loss and pain; it echoes in the empty corridors of his mind that grows cold much too fast for him to bear and he loses his consciousness once more, fever suddenly gone and body limp.

(But he will not die. He does not know why nor rejoices that he is alive, for he is as good as dead without his Gift.)

 

(After losing Alanna, her faith, her trust upon him, he cannot bear to lose another core of his existence.)

 

* * *

 

Thom wakes with a gasp. The chills have gone, but it is hard to breathe and he tries to shake it off as his eyes adjust to the light inside. There is a window on the bedside that the sun reaches much too far and Thom turns over, coarse linen against bare skin. He is not wearing his robe, but that is not on the top of the list. Thom draws a ragged breath and reaches in tentatively, afraid to confirm it, to confront it.

There is a vacant feel of nothingness in the dark, echoing halls of his mind.

Thom almost screams when a peculiar feeling overcomes him and urges him silent as a corpse. It is as if his Gift is guiding him so, yet there is no Gift in his body left. Nonetheless he heeds and tries to act like he is fast asleep, still breathing ragged but somehow sounding unconscious. It almost works and Thom feels a bit safer when suddenly there’s a hand on his neck.

He reacts viciously, almost biting it and the hand lets go, disappearing from his view. A voice sounds from behind but it is nothing he can understand. Thom flicks his eyes at the corner of his eyes and suddenly the hand flips him over to face the man.

No, it is no man that he sees. It is shaped like one, though it lacks the round ears of one and much, much too beautiful and androgynous that says _male_ in a strange way _,_ but not _man._ Dark hair ripples to the side of its face, highlighting the high cheekbones and arched nose like a noble Lord from the Book of Gold, to the supple lips that are only a tad darker than the flawlessly lit skin. The appearance borders on ethereal and Thom absently thinks of Roger. The chiseled, handsome face lacks vitality just as Roger had when he came back to life in Thom’s arms. But there is a clear difference, faint lines in its dark gray eyes, laced with grief. The muted insanity beyond them are startlingly clear to Thom, who knows that look and wore it like a slave collar until it was himself holding the chains, driving himself up the wall.

As much as the creature feels wrong, it has its hands on its side firmly as if trying to show him how it will not hurt Thom; its voice is quiet and soothing, and Thom blinks at it, not exactly calmed but somehow subdued. It stares back with a strange expression and asks again hesitantly in another lilting archaic language that feels a bit different from the last words. Thom shrugs, not knowing what to do and it seems to understand what is going on.

It disappears so Thom is left staring at the doorway, the outer rooms in plain view until it comes back with a plate on its hands. He feels his stomach react to the smell and suspiciously takes it bit by bit, eyes flicking over to the creature every bite. It smiles in that hollow way that Thom knows about but doesn’t like, and after he’s finished it points at himself and says, _Thurin_. Thom gets it but doesn’t introduce himself, though he keeps calling for Thurin whenever he needs something.

 

* * *

 

Thom learns the language from Thurin and it’s a language he’s never seen before. The letters are different and the script flows and subsides like the waves of Port Caynn at evening. Thom draws the script quite well now, and Thurin seems approving when he sees the work Thom has been doing. Thom is fine with it, since Thurin is quite a good teacher even with the lack of communication.

It’s just that he wonders where the paper is coming from, since Thurin doesn’t seem to be working nor a lord of anywhere. He does walk and carry himself like royalty though, and Thom still isn’t sure if it’s just inborn, a different species thing or Thurin belonging to the upper class of his species. But Thurin glides around in a cat-like grace and it terribly reminds of Alanna’s sword, effortless and elegant and most of all, _deadly._ Thurin is also silent and much too light on his feet that he doesn’t make any sound walking on brittle branches just outside the house. The agility that he shows while catching the plate midair that Thom accidentally swept off the table almost scares him and at the same time, fascinates him.

Thurin walks with an inhuman, ethereal grace, and Thom can’t help watching. The dark gray eyes eventually acknowledge his stare and silently waits for him to speak.  

And everytime Thom looks away, until the day he does ask in his stilted, limited grasp of Sindarin. 

“What are you, Thurin?”

Thurin cocks his head to the side, much too reminiscent of Roger that Thom seizes up for a moment, and answers promptly. “I am Eldar.” 

That _Eldar._ Thom has come to understand the word synonymous to whatever species Thurin belongs to, but it doesn’t explain anything. Thom suspects that it isn’t even Sindarin, though it may belong to a cousin of the language.

 _“I clearly don’t know what that word is supposed to be.”_   He mutters in Tortallan, but the tone is pretty clear and Thurin makes that hollow smile again. Thom eyes it with distaste barely concealed.

“I am Eldar. Nothing else, nothing more. In Quenya, it means _Children of Stars_.”

Quenya. Thom notes that Thurin slips into the archaic language much more easily that Sindarin. Mothertongue, maybe?

He does not ask, but watches.

Learns.

 

* * *

 

Thom is almost frightened at the speed of which elven guardsmen ride upon him and arrest him. If he had not known he had no fëa and every elf around him could feel that freak-of-nature thing, he would have ran and get caught, inducing an even more condemning stare. Thom tries not to show his nervousness and stares back at the head of the riders. The dark haired elf interrogates him sharply, then looks bemused when he follows without a peep. 

They take him into the city, apparently called Lindon, the center being the Court of the High King. Thom remembers what Thurin had once told him; the High King Ereinion Gil-galad sees fëa much more clearly than others and will feel any with no fëa a thousand leagues around him. That sounded much too powerful to be true and Thom had voiced that doubt, but Thurin was adamant that Thom listen to him. Thom is grudgingly glad that he did.

The court itself is somewhat like the courts of Corus, and it slightly bores him out of the fascination in seeing so many elves and men interacting. Ereinion Gil-galad is a phenomenon and strongly reminds Thom of Prince Jonathan. Thom instinctively scowls and the High King looks very interested in _why_.

 _Messenger of Morgoth? Servant of Sauron?_ Thom is neither and lets the king know it, claiming himself to be from another world, but the assertion is weak with him lacking a _fëa_. Though it’s nice that they conclude Thom to be a child of his kind, even if he’s already twenty three. It’s the first time his small stature has earned him something. He considers it a win.

The High King reads men too easily that he knows something is different about Thom beyond the nonexistence of fëa, though he still doesn’t believe the other-world explanation. Thom doesn’t push it and stays put in the cozy little room they put him in and lounges, reading books and writing papers on the difference of Tortall and this _Arda_ in clear Sindarin, though no one will read and take a hint. It’s not like he had anything else to do than skulking around the world.

It’s not too different from his life with Thurin so he almost forgets that he’s captured until Ereinion himself comes and watches him zealously scribble things down with a somewhat scalding look. That reminds him of Alanna, young and wild and all anger-and-tears when Father would tell off some insane idea she proposed and Thom snickers. It’s the first time he’s laughed coming here.

Ereinion looks put off for a bit, then asks why. Thom blinks the tears away and shakes his head, refusing to speak and he gets a knife in his throat. Touchy. Does he really have to say this? 

“Your face reminded me of my sister when she was ten and things didn’t work out the way she wanted.”

The king looks offended for a second and Thom senses a dread that he pushed too far. But then the king laughs like silver bells and he prays a little thanks towards whereever Mithros may be.

Until the king orders his men—sorry, _elves_ _—_ to put him in the dungeons.

 

* * *

 

The dungeons are only a tad worse than his old rooms in the City of the Gods, and they give him enough food so Thom doesn't mind. The cell must be the most comfortable, safe place Thom has been for a few months now. The staleness of the air is much more familiar and makes him in a better mood. It almost feels like home, if anyone knew what he meant.

He asks for a book maybe but gets refused. Pen and paper they allow him, and he doesn't push his luck.  

 

* * *

 

To look back, there were signs that his unconscious mind had been giving him. The tingling, for one. The air around him becoming crisper and crisper, almost like the crackling before lightning. Thom waking up under the bed with no memory nor pain, even though he wakes up at the sound of the guards walking around at night. He feels much better too but he accounts that to being nursed back to his regular weight than when he’d been traveling, and he stays in a good mood even when the Captain of the Dungeons come to interrogate him. It is strange because Thom had never been this easy to smile and laugh, but he is for that week. The dungeons, with the staler air and halting breeze makes it feel like he was in Trebond again and Thom thinks it helps him recover, the familiarity of the environment.

It is about a week of unnatural cheer when Thom suddenly falls into a fever. The heat pitches right up and makes the healers frantic enough to call up for the king. Thom would’ve been snarky if he was fine, but right now he barely feels their presence. His body is burning away and all he feels is pain and anger and fear, fear that this might be it for him, but there is something inside all the negative emotions that just doesn't ring with the rest of the chaos and he cries out loud when it rips, like water breaking.

He feels it then, the dry lakebed with deep cracks in his mind. He whimpers, feels cool hands smooth his forehead when the cracks grow wider and become chasms. He would’ve been thrashing if he had enough strength but he doesn’t, so he only shudders and jerks time to time when they start to burst—

—and violet pushes through.

Thom opens his eyes and everything is as clear and vivid as it had once been. He doesn’t notice Ereinion staring back down, he just sees the violet shimmering inside him, purged of all the orange taint it had once taken on. Thom holds his breath as he takes a hand above the pool of brimming fire, slowly and carefully and it responds, tentative but awake and he stays silent in wonder as it manifests under his guide, tinting his hands light purple. It feels so good, having the Gift coursing through his veins, strumming and humming under his skin like a long-lost friend, to embrace his core again and it is when he finally sees Ereinion, eye to eye.

“Your fëa.”

The king speaks in astonishment and disbelief and Thom laughs like he would a long-awaited cough. He laughs as he would sob and echoes, not quite.

“My _Gift_.”

 

* * *

 

Thom finds out that his beard isn’t growing. It’s Elrond who notices first, about a full six months into Thom’s stay in Lindon who points it out. Elrond coughs politely and asks, “Do you usually not have growth on your chin?”

Thom blinks at the non sequitur and thinks about it before he answers.

“No, I had them when I was in puberty.” Then he understands why Elrond looks so put off. “Oh.”

“Oh indeed.” Elrond smiles a bit and his voice drops lower, softer. “I don’t think you’ve aged, either.” He murmurs as if handling something made of glass.

Thom instantly dislikes it and retorts sharply, “Or you’re just imagining it.”

Because Sir Alan of Trebond never had much beard before he married Marinie of Tasride, and the Trebonds tend to age later, well in their years. Thom doesn’t go ahead to explain it, but Elrond seems to get his discomfort and thankfully backs off.

Thom stalks off without a word.

 

* * *

 

It’s after a decade that Thom finally acknowledges it. He’s not aging, at least physically, and he’s still an unbearded youth who looks so painfully young, only twenty-three and may look younger still due to his longer hair now. He wears his copper hair in a Mithran braid that no one here has recognized so far; he knew they would not, but it’s another confirmation that he’s not in Tortall anymore and he feels somewhat lost when he wears it.

He takes a look into elven braids, and when Elrond sees him eyeing some of the formal braids he subtly offers him a hand. Thom stares squarely at the ever-gentle lordling and eventually sigh in concession.

Some of the Eldar flinch when he puts on elven braids; those that Elrond has taught him are ancient Noldorin, borne in the First Age, and combined with his red hair, it clearly paints a ghost of the massacres. Thom knows it from Thurin, but he acts like he doesn’t see them whispering. Elrond apologizes later and shows him other Lindonian braidings that he picked up from other members of the Court.

He keeps the Noldorin braids on. Give them things to talk, he does not care.

This was never his world.

 

* * *

 

Thom has long been accustomed to the various rumors that surround him; it is inevitable, really, for he belongs to neither Eldar nor Edain and does not age, does not have kin nor ties. He has magic purple and visible, fëa brilliant violet unlike any other. All this difference always gets him kept at arm’s length, even if he is one of the most senior advisors of the High King.

(Ha, senior advisor. He would not have dreamt of it in Tortall, but things are different here, mostly himself. Dying has made him soft.)

All the wariness doesn’t bother him much, since it was the same back in Tortall when he was the eighteen-year-old Mithran Master, the youngest and most dangerous. The Gifted society had always watched him warily, always trailing a few feet behind, always around him, watching every move he made. Only Alanna had been different, because she understood him like no other. She had always paid attention to him, always reading what he wanted to say, not what he said. She was short-tempered, yes, but it did not mean that she did not understand. They were once one, they were two parts of a whole and Thom did not need anyone else, as long as she was there for him and he was there for her.

Then Roger happened, and Thom had died on her—he can still remember Alanna’s anguish and he regrets everything again, ashamed of how he had broken her as much as it had broken him—and he came back in a different, unfamiliar world, no ties, no knowledge, nothing to hold him up. Men here do not have magic in their blood; those who do were another race entirely, and the Elves look and act much too differently from what Thom expects. Even their magic is formed differently, passive at its best and Thom knew from the very start that he does not fit into this world, that this world has no place for him. Thom was lost—he knew it deep in his bones, and for that alone he does not truly care to socialize.

There are, however, inevitable acquaintances that Thom had first resented yet later comes to appreciate even a little. The most prominent would be the High King himself, Ereinion Gil-galad. Thom converses regularly with the King as a member of the Council, the seat recommended by the Lady of Lothlorien, but at first it had been a strained relationship. With Thom’s capricious moods and Ereinion’s proud arrogance, they set off with arguments every private council meeting discussing various problems. It was brutal and vicious for both, facts and truths thrown around like weapons and the only reason Ereinion did not hold a grudge was because Thom never challenged him in public, and the quarrels were productive at the very least.

It became more of a habit by the passing of the first decade; a ritual opening ceremony by the second. By the third, both harbored a grudging respect towards each other, and by the end of the century, they ended up knowing each other too well despite their lack of socializing. In a nutshell, it became a working partnership that ended up good enough.

It is only thanks to the Galadriel, the Lady of Lothlorien that Ereinion ceased to badger the warmage and let him in his circles. She had vouched for Thom when she visited to read his fëa, and only after her confirmation that he was not a threat was Thom released from his official status as prisoner in question. As a fellow Seer however, she saw too clearly of the implications of his treachery before Middle Earth. It was a surprise that not only had she kept silent, seeing to Thom directly but she had also recommended him to actively participate in politics in the court of Lindon.

Thom ends up socializing with her during his sabbaticals from the court of Lindon; she is an excellent partner in academia and much easier to speak to. The Lady of Lothlorien is constantly concerned for him, trying to soothe his naturally frenzied mind, never afar yet never too near. Thom likes her better than others for the actual comfort she seeks to bring him even when she clearly knows he would rather not take it. He is Thom through and through, acerbic and unpleasant, yet Galadriel still comes through every time with old texts and magic that intrigues more than annoy him. It was a shame that Thom had already sworn his liege towards the High King of Lindon. He had thought of withdrawing his oath-it was too easy for Thom-but Galadriel had looked at him sharply with a knowing eye and he shrugged.

Due to his relative closeness to his spouse, Celeborn would often stand in the doorway, scowling handsomely as a lord can and turning away when Thom snarks at him. Thom doesn't mind, no, because he knows how irritating it would be for the Telerin prince, but when Celeborn started challenging him in some way or the other he did stand up to it and prove himself every time. It is a given fact that Thom’s fatal flaw was pride, and pride alone would humble him though the day had not come yet.

There are unsurprisingly a few hostile engagements other than Celeborn, such as a certain Sindarin lord of silver locks and a cold blue stare that reminds Thom of Roger in many ways. It is fortunate that Thom does not face the King of the Greenwood that often, but then Oropher never addresses the animosity in public. He and Thom maintain a wry sort of peace with one another though his young son is a conceited little shit. Which Thom knows best (he's been there before) to graciously ignore if he can. Young and treacherous, that one.

With Elrond he manages a casual working relationship for a while. The favorable thing about Elrond is that he knows when to take a hint; it is the major reason why they get along so well. Sometimes they would drink together, often times they work closely with each other. Erestor, a friend of Elrond's, is not that fond of Thom and stays quite wary for a bit before they grow on each other like fungi, inching into becoming something like drinking friends and then friends. They could be seen as close, but Thom would never confide in Elrond because he gossips too much. Maybe to Erestor he would, Erestor being much more helpful in life decision-making.

And then there is Glorfindel, who is another matter entirely.

 

* * *

 

It is well into the Second Age when Glorfindel returns from Aman. The glorious lord of lore is a lion in its prime, and Thom is instantly reminded of a certain Lioness that he practically runs away from the welcoming banquet, locks himself in his quarters for the rest of the night until Erestor comes knocking with a wine bottle in hand. 

Too bad for Thom that Glorfindel is appointed as Captain of the Guards, since it means that he is also on the Council of the High King. Thom tries his best to avoid the golden lord, but the encounters are inevitable.

The sorry thing is that Glorfindel is a delightful person. He never acts superior like others tend to do, and Thom can gladly appreciate the warmth he brings along with him. It’s just that every time Thom looks at him, he sees Alanna there and he cannot bear it. Glorfindel is fundamentally different from Alanna—male, Elda, all gold and amber, tall, ethereal, graceful long hands, lean-muscled, full lips, blue armor, and yet. Yet he reminds Thom of his sister, his counterpart, and it’s hard to watch but even harder to not watch so Thom resolves to ignoring him entirely.

Not that it goes well.

Exhausting is an understatement. The hardest thing, the one thing that screws it up for Thom is that _Glorfindel cannot take a hint._ Thom would not usually care and just snap and snark until the other finally gets the idea, but unlike Elrond who knows Thom’s mood swings better than Thom himself or Ereinion who habitually bites back when Thom riles him up, Glorfindel keeps on inserting himself into Thom’s daily life. Thom suspects that this may be Ereinion’s revenge for all those times when Thom smoked him crisp, ordering Glorfindel to keep an eye on Thom for anything suspicious, but he has no proof other than Glorfindel looking thoughtful and very attentive whenever Thom uses his Gift. The persistence becomes tiring, and the lord just takes all the tantrums Thom throw deliberately with a deceptively cheerful demeanor so Thom quits lashing out after a while. Instead, he starts to confine himself to either the library or his quarters.

Glorfindel seems to feel personally attacked by Thom’s desperate evasion yet still does not confront him. He is only frustrated and keeps pouting those full lips (not that Thom is eyeing him every time he does it). Glorfindel tries hard to appease Thom and apologize for whatever he did wrong and consequently Thom avoids him even more.

Not until Thom gets drunk at a small gathering of the High King’s Council does Glorfindel find out a sliver of truth. Lothlorien sends them a batch of wonderful wine one season and Thom fails to escape a drinking match with Ereinion himself. Thom is not a lightweight in even elven standards—he can drink Erestor under the table and Erestor usually wins all the drinking games in a banquet—but it turns out that Ereinion is only second to Oropher, who is apparently the patron saint of liquor and has never been inebriated. Thom ends up conceding, slumped comfortably in his chair and Ereinion laughs at it for once, Elrond urging Thom to take some water while Glorfindel watches, amused when Thom starts swearing. Ereinion thrives to make blackmail material for the next council meeting and is delighted to see the little shit finally lose his control. They find out soon that intoxicated Thom tends to be painfully honest and pliant and starts to ask embarrassing, trivial questions when Glorfindel scrunches his eyes and asks what he has done wrong. 

Thom stares back into those golden eyes and Glorfindel is taken aback, about to cancel his question when Thom blurts out,

“I miss her.”

The senior councilors know exactly what Thom is thinking of, and wraps up the gathering. Erestor doesn’t know what is going on, but he can take a hint and leads Thom back to his quarters, not that Thom really needs it. Only Glorfindel is flabbergasted. Who is her?

(Thom makes a mistake of hesitating in a skirmish, almost ending up dead on both sides and Glorfindel is finally enraged, demanding that any problem to be settled. Thom tells him what was wrong, that nothing was wrong with Glorfindel, and “I apologize, this will not happen again.” They avoid each other for months.)

 

* * *

 

“She was beautiful, you know.” Thom is casually watching Glorfindel when he speaks; it is a gaze that the golden lord finds hard to ignore. “She probably is, if she still lives.”

They are both quiet after Thom’s non sequitur, until Glorfindel speaks up. “I could paint her for you if you wanted.”

Thom looks him in the eye and it is the first time that he smiles at him.

“It’s fine, but thank you, my lord.”

 


	3. buon vino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is during his uncle’s private banquet that young Giuliano first meets the dark-eyed cardinal.
> 
> Or, love is like fine wine: age it and it will grace your tongue, but decades old it will turn sour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only rps I ever do is dead Italian rps. When have I fallen so low?  
> Also I know Rodrigo de Borja is generally considered most definitely heterosexual, but it doesn't mean he can't be hetero-oriented bi so yeeeah…. :3 shush

 

1467, age 22 

 _Listen carefully,_ mio nipote _. This is not the University, nor the Friary where you may do as you will. This is politics, and your recklessness will get you nowhere. You will think before you speak, and listen before you think._

 -

 The banquet is a lasvicious event that takes all the evening. As his uncle’s attendant, Giuliano sits at his left and stays so the whole of the evening. Francesco told him to keep his mouth shut as if Giuliano didn’t understand what was on stake, and of course he does, he isn't that much of an idiot. He knows himself and his habit of lashing his tongue around. Spirits had been tossed around for some hours and it is due to the drinks that Giuliano stands up to weave his way out of the banquet, with a simple excuse muttered in his uncle’s ear _(mi scusi, reverendissimo)_.

 When he does come back, his uncle is still quite sober, given that he favors light beverages over hard liquor, but he still leans a bit too much on the table, deep in conversation with a younger man in scarlet. Another cardinal. Giuliano slips back on his uncle’s left side and the man’s focus flickers from Francesco’s animated laughter to the intruder and stops squarely on the boy. Giuliano falters in midst of sitting down, Francesco only then noticing him.

 “Ah, there he is. _Cardinale_ , this is my nephew, Giuliano della Rovere. Nephew, the most Reverend and Illustrious, Rodrigo _Cardinale_ de Borja.”

 Dark, keen eyes pins him down as he moves around the table. Giuliano takes the man’s hand, gets down on one knee and lowers his head to kiss the ring. Dry lips slide, barely scraping the skin. Eyes upwards, he smiles crookedly.

“It is a pleasure, _illustrissimo e reverendissimo_.”

 He catches the man looking at his throat as Giuliano speaks, mouthy and barely restrained under his uncle’s eye. Giuliano casually makes double entendres that fly straight over his uncle and right into the younger cardinal.

 -

 Cardinal Borja is a man of vigor; strong, intelligent, and everything Giuliano likes in his partners.

 Pity that he’ll be back in Perugia by next evening. Giuliano gives a filthy kiss and strides out of the cardinal’s quarters.

 


	4. Forfeit the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excerpts of a Haikyuu Magic AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for these fanarts, in which Oikawa is Keeper of the South.  
> https://twitter.com/Hasan_2cha/status/671649004560642048  
> https://twitter.com/Hasan_2cha/status/672045584065232896  
> https://twitter.com/Hasan_2cha/status/672307830263713792 
> 
> The growing up part is pretty much my fic but the fireweasel and the idea itself is from the fanart. Love it, still love it. Especially because I love writing about the image of magic.

 

The first thing you remember are your fingers. It's not because it's tinged with ash, but because the fire you accidentally touched never burned your hand. Instead, it follows you out of the hearth and dances orange on your fingertips. You stare at the flickering light in a daze before you hear someone turning the doorknob. You jump, you were hiding from the older boys in the cold, dusty room before the hearth suddenly burst into life so you scramble to hide again. Only after your frenzy to hide do you realize that the door never opened and the fire vanished, but the heat still lingers softly and it's warmer than before. You creep back out the tiny window you jammed with a branch of oak when you hear the lunch bell. You barely get through, and you struggle a bit before you’re free to go.

You later find out that no one has managed to get into the room again because the door was somehow jammed. The older boys scoff and try kicking at the door, but it won't open. It stays locked until the headmistress’s son, a magus comes by and easily unlocks the door. By the next month, you're registered as a magus and moved to another orphanage which is considered to be "more suitable for a magical child".

Indeed, there are classes in the new orphanage where you learn to control your magic. There you find out that you’re unusually close to fire, and that you’re the only one in the room who isn’t hurt when a sheet of paper, and subsequently the linoleum floor catches fire. At first the others blame you, because everyone knows you have an affinity for fire but then some of the quiet ones start confessing that they were playing with magnifying lenses. You're grateful for their honesty and make friends that day, but it's a flimsy thing that breaks down when you both want the same toy. You apologize later but it's never the same again. The older kids pick on you because while you are an _angel_ (all the teachers said so, though you don't know what it is exactly, because your parents never mentioned those so you’re just guessing it’s some kind of compliment), you are also a crybaby and the runt, smallest in the whole age group. So you become an expert in finding little nooks and crannies in the gardens or in the laundry room.

The laundry room is where you first meet him. It’s not exactly an ideal meeting, since he’s doing his chores when he finds you in the broom closet. You’re too startled to move, but he looks at you, sighs, then pulls you out gently to dust you off. You instantly like him because he’s nice. You sneeze, then he sneezes from all the dust you’ve accumulated in there, but he opens the window, gets the job done somehow and walks you back out of the laundry room. You whine a bit, because you get the feeling that he’s someone you can whine to, but he doesn’t take any of it and shuts the door firmly behind you.

You meet him there again, in the same broom closet at the same four o’clock the next day. He sighs again, and pulls you out. He’s walking you out again when you pull on his sleeve and whine a bit more enthusiastically. You pout and beg to stay, that you could sit still—you couldn’t, actually, you still fidget a bit and flick on and off the candlelight during Keeper meetings until Kenma tells you off—on the stool at the edge of the laundry. He takes a long look at your sad, puppy face, tells you it doesn’t convince him any bit but it doesn’t discourage you because you know how adorable you are. All the adults tell you so. 

He eventually lets you trail behind him instead.

He’s not much taller than you thought the day before, and you learn that he has a habit of scrunching his nose when he’s just about to sneeze, and he sneezes often. You wonder if it’s just because it’s the laundry room and the broom closet is open, but you’re not sneezing so you guess it’s only him. He has strong hands for a kid, and you wonder why he’s doing the laundry, of all things. You tell him exactly so. His ears go red, and he barks out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh. Then he turns around and asks you why you were hiding in the closet when you could have been traipsing outside in the gardens. You shrug.

He turns back and tells you he’s eight. He’s in here doing this because his mother works in the orphanage and she doesn’t have time to babysit him, so he gets to do the laundry and be _responsible_. He sounds proud at that, and you tell him you’re eight too and you don’t get him, and that he’s weird because no one likes chores, even if it makes someone _responsible_ (whatever that means, by the way. You still don’t really get what it is all about and Middwellers are ridiculous). By the way he squints at you and huffs, apparently _he_ does.

You learn his name later in the evening, when you’re back to the orphanage beds. You should feel tired, because you’ve been showing off your skills—or really, your lack of—to your new friend-ish person but you aren’t, you stare up at the ceiling, tossing and turning. The older girls are giggling and you overhear something about the new cook and her son. Her son, who has short spiky hair and a stoic little face but blushes bright red when he notices them in the hallways, how he’s much cuter than the gruff boys here. You instinctively know that’s him, the one you met in the laundry room, and you catch the name.

Hajime.

It's pretty, and it fits. But all the others would call him the same, so you think of a nickname. Something special that only you will use. That only you want to use. 

You’re still thinking of what to call him when you wake up. It’s dawn, and you know by what the girls said that he’ll be coming back today too. So you wait around until eight o’clock, not eating breakfast and wait on the stairs for him to come in. You don’t catch him for a whole hour, and neither can you see the new cook. By that point, you go looking for him and find him in the kitchens, peeling potatoes. He sees you and you squirm at the sudden awkwardness, and he beckons you to the sink. You wash your hands, with soap, just as he wanted you to and he hands you a peeler.

It’s hard peeling a potato without reducing it to the size of an egg—it’s too round—so you try cheating and chop it into cubic blocks. You don't get far because he snatches the potato out of your hands and gives you the carrot instead. The carrot you’re better with, because you just have to cut long stripes of wayward roots and soil off. He seems to approve and nods slightly when you put down your handiwork, and you suddenly get comfortable sitting side by side on the kitchen floor.

You’re on the cucumbers, wondering what food would need a disgusting _cucumber_ for, when a woman with a white bun-like hat comes out of the back door. She coos at you both for being such precious darlings, and she proceeds on doing her thing which you can’t see by your place on the floor. But you do know that she’s amazing because that is the most delicious scent you’ve ever smelled. She smiles when you perk up and start sniffing around the counter.

She feeds you both a carrot and a cucumber, which you don’t deny because Hajime would probably not approve if you discriminate vegetables, and she tells him to be a good boy and play with you. You’re fine with that, because you liked him before and you still like him, and he doesn’t seem to have any objection so you both head out to the gardens.

 

* * *

 

No, you can't lose him like this. You cannot, you will not. But his soul is slipping away, led by knots of dark threads that reek of death. This is the end that fate had bestowed upon him, but no, you can't lose him like this. No, no, no, and you try to grasp the soul but it hardly stays inside your hands, about to drift off any moment. You can't do anything. You can't, oh god, you can't, but you have to, have to do something—and you see the fireweasel skittering in its cage.

The fireweasel. The flame hoarder. A creature of the Sun. 

You instinctively know what you can try. Hell, you're a Southmage, a sun magier. You're a fateshifter. If anyone can do this, it's you.

So with trembling hands you pluck off the webs of death that cling to the soul like tar, then take your own strings of life. It pulses with energy every moment like a solid, steady heartbeat and you pray to god knows who for this to work.

It does. Once loosened, his golden tendrils shoot out over the room and you can see the exact moment to tweak the magic. You take it; you gently coax the slowest, brightest string, the string of fate out of the frenzy and tie it to your own soul. The other strings make their way to the fireweasel, a creature most attuned to this brand of southern magick, but the most important one is now fastened to you.

Now he shares your fate.

-

The fireweasel coughs and grumbles in its sleep, just like Iwa-chan.

You can't believe you've succeeded. You have this feeling that you'll never be able to do this again, change fate like this without risking your own life, but you don't care as long as Iwa-chan is still with you. You don't need anything else, anyone else. You don't need to change fates ever again.

He can't remember himself, because the vessel is different. But it's okay. It's okay, because it's still the same Iwa-chan, just without his memories. You haven't lost him yet.

Everything will be fine, because he's still here. Iwa-chan. Iwaizumi.

Hajime.


	5. Dark as Daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excerpts (drafts) from a RPG Vampire!AU

 Rain pours incessantly on the stark grey walls of the city and pools at the bottom of the stained glass window. The well-crafted twilight sky never changes down here in the Necropolis, and the scarce artificial rains are never as fresh as it would be above in Raizo.

 Torches flicker as footsteps echo in the hallway and come to a stop at the window. A lean man in a rich black robe stands staring out into the horizon, eyes searching and narrowed. His face is smooth and perfectly balanced, with deep set eyes that glitters keen and sea-green. A straight nose meets dark brows, an epitome of male beauty. The skin seems paler than it truly is, contrasted with long raven hair that falls sharp to the side, brushing against cheekbones. But beyond the chiseled complexion and tall stature the air around him is heavy, old, dark and almost tangible; it moves like a sentient being, sensing everything around it.

 The man blinks once, then twice after the long moment and his eyes take a shade of bright teal as he starts off again, turning right at the end of the hallways and taking a winding staircase down. A few people who passes by greets him with formal words and he nods absently at them, apparently at ease with the status and power he holds. The dark buzz that shadows him flexes and clings to his robes, and torches dim and die as he passes by. The man ignores all the fuss his shadows make and keeps going, taking staircase after staircase down the city until he does not encounter anyone anymore. The darkness settles back again, albeit humming with quiet indignation.

 At one point he steps into one of the lower quarters. A single door stands at the end of the eastern wing, engraved with overlapping designs and patterns. The teal-eyed man stalls for a moment and knocks quietly before giving the heavy oak a light push. The door silently opens and he glides in slowly, giving it another push to shut them again. 

 The office is dim, lit only by a few notched candles. The notches still holds three and a half. The draped bed on the other side of the room shifts slightly as the door thuds shut. The teal-eyed man smiles at that and approaches, taking the loose drapes in one swift move and hanging them back in place on the bedpost.

 A lithe boy, looking barely out of adolescence blinks owlishly up at him, sprawled upside down and languid on a hoard of pillows. His hair, usually tied high into a long ponytail, is loose and spread on the pile like a dark halo that pools on the bed as he cocks his head to the side. The glimmer of a shield fades swiftly as he recognizes the intruder.

 "Oh." The young man grins, eyes warm and dark in the candlelight. "Hello, Isley. I see you've returned."

 Isley returns the smile playfully. "I certainly have. I see you've been busy." He climbs on the bed, lounging beside the boy who does not even try to sit up from the pile. Instead, the young man snuggles deeper into the hoard and only holds his left hand out to Isley. "Hm?"

 Thread is wrapped intricately on each finger, knotted irregularly and clearly uncut from the spool he holds on the right. The boy shrugs as Isley takes his hand to give a closer examination, adding another line across his palm by the flick of his right hand. A harmless speck of light bursts above them as a transparent white aura envelops the web of thread.

 "Just some efficiency and control experiments with thread magic. I needed the room dark enough to check the flashes, so I just turned everything off and lit a few candles just in case." Then he sits up straight with horror in his eyes. "Goodness, the laboratories!"

 "Nibelung saved it before you wrecked everything. Thank her and just don't forget next time."

 Isley chuckles, ruffling the boy's hair like he would a child. The young man groans and flops back on the mound of pillows again.

 "She'll never stop nagging. Damn it, I can't even hide until she lets it go—there's a council meeting tonight."

 "I could attend in your place, I've missed a couple in the past few weeks." Isley suggests but he shakes his head.

 "You could, but then she'll come down here instead so no, we're going together. By the way, you're lucky you've been absent, Isley, because it's been a massive clusterfuck during the personnel appointments." The boy makes a disgusted face. "Every single party in this damned city have been plotting to wipe out one another, and there's so much I can do before they all turn on _me_."

 He moans and dramatically sticks his head into the pile again, flailing arms all around. Isley quickly ducks to evade a blind arm and casts a joking remark.

 "Ah, but they're too sensible to do that, Disciple Raiquia."

 Raiquia snorts at that point and crosses his arms across his nightshirt. "They're just sensible enough to wait until they can, Disciple Isley."

 Isley shrugs. "Not everyone resents you."

 "Please, they only tolerate me because I am your proxy when you're absent, and you're absent most of the time. Those who actually like me, on the other hand, have no power nor interest to risk all that disapproval. Can we abandon this topic? It's going to be messy if we stay on this track." The younger man waves his hands lazily. "Tell me about your trip instead. Is it true that our dearest master needed you to fetch and roll for him?"

 Isley smiles wryly. "As usual."

 "As usual, ha." Raiquia echoes, flat and unsurprised. "When is he going to send us off to a suicide mission again?"

 "I don't even know, the master is uncharacteristically taking his time. He was even courteous during the trip, so it might take a while for him to see we’re not buying any of it."

 “He’ll be picking me off next time, since your party would very much protest if he sent you away again after so short a break.” Raiquia cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. “Or not. I’m practically your only drawback so he could try and use me as bait.”

 “The Master isn’t half the idiot you think he is, Raiquia. You’re a First of the Order, he would be much more careful.”

 “You seem to forget he’s a First himself, and an ancient one at that. I do despise him, but I don’t expect him to make that obvious a mistake.” The younger man throws his hands in the air dramatically. “Oh, I don’t even care now. Let him come whenever he wants.”

 

* * *

~~Under is in 2nd person, because it's what I scribble in and this is a draft~~

~~~~~~~~You gag, you retch, you desperately try to clear out the new blood from your system. Too bad your body is hungry for more; it's already absorbed everything and demands for you to start feeding again. It blindly chases that full, satisfied sensation and you hysterically shake your head choking on your own whispers, pleading and begging for something you don't even know. No one listens; you've slaughtered them all. You has sucked on everything in its grasp and left nothing, not a living soul.

 You claw at your chest. You want to bleed it all out, all that you've drunk in the haze of instinctual bloodlust but bright red beads cling briefly on the laceration just to be absorbed back inside, bound too strong to you and you only. They don't even form properly as they used to and you wonder in panic just how much your VT has risen. Two hundred thousand? Three? After all, you've fed on everything in that city, the wretched city—you heave again and cry but you can't; you're a vampire, you've been one for centuries and yet you still act so human, so young.

 You technically are if you think of how many times you've fed properly since your initial transformation: none.

 No wonder your body craves for more but you had your reasons for your unnatural fasting: you had only become this monster because you had to survive, survive this hellhole, survive this coerced life of a sorcerer, forever bound, forever pulled down by this city's system of death and rot and the damned Black Goddess of theirs. At least you're free now; you've destroyed the chains they held over you, yet you've also devoured their tainted life, twisted and distorted with heathen faith and madness. The tendrils of black sorcery that swam in their veins now crawl in yours, darker and stronger and more enticing than ever, power you've never wanted even once in your thrice damned life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be precise, this is a crossover fic for RPG (manhwa) x Reveries of the Moonlight (novel). The black sorcery and Necropolis being underground and VT (Vampiric Transrate) are all things that are in Reveries of the Moonlight, and you don't really have to know what it's about to guess. 
> 
> And yes, because I love building worlds there's actually a whole world (and myth) that I made for this particular crossover but I'll probably not be uploading that unless I continue this.
> 
> \+   
> holy shit have you people seen the latest update for Part 3  
> the desperate need to write is killing me and I might actually continue this verse so uh yeah you really need to see the updates it's fantastic and Ace is there showing off so much of his darling self (god I love him) and I seriously have a thing for Highness he is just fucking gorgeous


End file.
